“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature, the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.”

Rachel Carson

A few years ago, we contemplated purchasing an artificial Christmas tree. Juan and I were remembering the prior winter when we trudged through snow that was over a foot deep, hauled an ice coated tree up two hills, struggled with securing it into the trunk of the car, which almost remained stuck in the frozen slush of the parking field, and transported it, precariously, a few icy miles home.

Once in the house, securing the tree – erect and squarely in the stand – and wiring it to the wall, is never a picnic,

but that year was particularly frustrating because as soon as we wiped up the pool of water on the floor from the ice melting on the limbs, we realized the stand’s basin, full of water, sprung a small leak. Aside from the trudge, which involved all three of us, Juan was the one who had to deal with all of it, the circumstances acerbated with an allergy to pine, and understandably, he was the one who initiated the conversation on “alternatives”.

There are some families, they tell me, who simply unearth the Christmas tree from the attic– and – voila! Lights and all! They’ve only to add the decorations, sans the prickly needles. Our ultimate decision, therefore, was entirely due to ease. We never dreamed that our daughter would respond so strongly when we informed her of our plan to purchase an artificial tree. We never imagined it would be an issue. After all, though involved in the selection process, she wasn’t the one engaged in any of the other rituals – the hauling, the wrestling, the wiring. We assumed she wouldn’t care. We were wrong. She reacted as though we’d announced – no more Christmas presents for you for the rest of your life! So, we acquiesced once more, and vowed to ourselves to really savor the experience since this would be the very last time.

And enjoy it, we did.  At the Christmas tree farm, we were informed that the trees this year were in “our own backyard”, or as close as one could come to it – the grove on Cedar Swamp Road – so we could walk, as we used to, when we went into the woods to select a tree on a neighbor’s invitation.  It was a sunny, windless December day, with only a dusting of snow, as if for show — one of those rare winter days when one wants to stay outside, or so, perhaps, it seemed as this was our last venture into a field to select a tree. The lot was mercifully flat and filled with perfect trees, and our neighbor volunteered his truck for the five minutes it took to take the one we selected home. Perhaps because this was our last, it seemed easier to hoist and secure than the others, and less prickly.

We’ve never seen a tree so perfect for the room, in its height and its girth, and so perfectly shaped; it charmed on its own without ornaments. Yet we strung the lights, the popcorn and cranberries, and placed the collection of decorations on its perfect branches, prolonging the process as this was the last of its type. And there it was, the glorious centerpiece of Christmas; and this, the last, was the most glorious of all.

As promised, we savored many moments of it, seeped in its peaceful splendor, spending time in the quiet of the evenings there, drinking mulled cider and hot cocoa, sharing stories and memories, listening to Christmas carols and sometimes silence. We always keep the tree up till Three Kings Day, since that, too, is our family’s holiday, however we kept this one up longer because it retained its scent and its freshness for so long, and because it was our last.

And, of course, it wasn’t. Yet it wasn’t the tree’s perfection, its twinkling magic, the togetherness it invited, the nostalgia it evoked that convinced us of this. It was actually all that the tree offered afterwards. It was the birds, who visited it first as a curiosity, returned throughout the long, cold months to nibble on the popcorn and the cranberries, to seek its shelter, to build nests in early spring, and to cheer us throughout the season. After the trudging and the hauling and the erecting, after the bustle and the sparkle and the excitement, the birds reminded us that we want to spend the long winter rest that follows this way: in the company of wildlife.

There were a lot of folks who switched to natural trees last year, who decided to bring a bit of the out-of-doors inside. During the pandemic, there were many people spending more time outside, city dwellers traveling to towns like ours to breathe freely, to seek connections, a cure for the isolation, a diversion, some reassurances from the thriving health of the natural world. How fortunate we were in our own back yards. How fortunate for the daily reminders of nature’s significance in our lives.

We’re reminded every morning when the flame of the sun rises through the silhouettes of trees, and every evening as it sets with a pastel splash across our horizon, and through the night in the magic of glittering stars. We’re reminded in every season, with the iconic cycles of New England’s fields and forests and farms, and with the privilege of witnessing the subtleties, the scent of mown hay, the crispness of fallen leaves, the feel of snowflakes, the first green growth unearthed in early spring. And we’re reminded whenever we trudge through deep snow, in the cold of a December afternoon, in search of a tree from a forest of them, and bring one from “our own backyard”, home.

Merry Christmas everyone.  May you spend time savoring your moments of excitement and of peace, of music and of silence, of togetherness and of nostalgia, and in the New Year, may you spend time with family, with friends, and with nature.

Dayna McDermott